Chapter Forty-Six - Birthday
It's cold and damp.
It's dark and foggy. It's November again. Annabel has
been working at her new job for a couple of months. It
would soon be her birthday. I wanted to give her
something special this year. What would she like? What
would be really special?I
sat and thought. Paints, yes, but somehow that didn't
sound terribly exciting.There
she was upstairs painting away, with dozens of
paintings propped up against the walls, with more
still stacked flat on the mezzanine floor. Perhaps a
really nice, and useful present would be to organise
an exhibition for her.I
went to the local library and looked through the
entertainments page of a newspaper, and noted down the
addresses of all the little galleries in the lists.Later
that week I drove up to London and looked in at half a
dozen of the galleries to see what kind of pictures
they had hanging on the walls, and see how many were
sold.There was a tall bored looking man at the end of the third gallery. I went up to ask him about hiring some space. He fiddled with his bony knuckles, and smelled of a very strong aftershave. "No, we don't hire the gallery. We stick to the kind of paintings we like, and sell them ourselves."
"And
what commission do you take?""Forty-five
percent usually."I
winced. I didn't think galleries charged that much
commission on a sale. No wonder they didn't need you
to hire out the place.At
the next gallery the gentleman behind the desk was
more relaxed and affable. "Oh my dear, we do all kinds
of arrangements. If we really like the product we take
it on and sell for a commission..." I raised my
eyebrows interrogatorily. "Usually fifty percent. On
the other hand we are prepared to allocate space to an
artist for a certain fee. We would also take a small
percentage of any sales. Say ten percent," he added as
an after thought."And
suppose I wanted to hire the whole of this room?" I
asked.He
frowned, and pursed his lips. "Um, well, that would
depend. How big are the paintings? Do you have any
slides of the product?"I
brought out a box. He flicked through the slides,
holding them up to the window. "Um, yes. Interesting.
Let's go downstairs and blow these up."Downstairs
he had a projector, and he slotted the slides into the
machine. "Ah yes, I like that. It has a strong
diagonal push to it. The force of the colours running
in a rather nice, urgent way, from that base there...
that.... what shall we say? That melting pot, that
creation point."He
slotted another slide into position. I didn't answer
anything he said. After all I know nothing about
pictures. In any case, I wasn't the one who had to
make a decision."No,
I don't like that." He ejected a slide, and tried
another. This brought forth a cogitative um, and a
puzzled stare, but otherwise, silence.He
enthused over the mini sculptures, and was rather
taken with the large plaster pictures. He found the
three dimensional hardboard constructions a bit old
fashioned and dull. "Tricks, you know, not real
painting. I prefer the real urge behind paintings to
come to the fore. I like to feel my walls are alive
and breathing. Do you know what I mean?""Yes,
yes," I said, feeling I ought to agree. In a sense of
course I did agree, but with what? Any dead painting
should be removed to the graveyard, that's obvious,
but which paintings can be said to have died, and
which ones are still alive and talking to us?When
he'd gone through the whole box of slides he switched
off the projector and sat back. "Yes, I'd like to see
some of them. Can you bring a few of them in so I can
have a closer look?""Of
course, any particular time?"And
so we made arrangements, and I went home feeling at
last Annabel would have a show in London, and she
couldn't have a better birthday present than that.Driving
home I made the arrangements in my mind. I would hire
a Rolls Royce to take her up to London in the morning
and be dropped at the gallery where I would meet her
and she could go round her very own exhibition.I
was quite excited about the whole venture. I paid a
deposit on the space in the gallery, then tried to
work out how the paintings could be arranged to the
best advantage, and still get plenty of them on the
walls without cluttering them up.Just
for a joke, two weekends before the magic date I said,
"What do you want for your birthday this year?"She
was very closed up. She didn't want to speak to me. "I
don't want anything," she said, as if she resented me
even speaking to her."What
do you mean, you don't want anything?""I
mean what I say, I don't want any present.""Not
from anybody?""No.""Whyever
not?""Does
it matter?That
pretty well stumped me. I sat there totally
crestfallen. "So you don't want anything at all?
Nothing from me. Nothing from the children? You don't
even want anything for your painting? No paints? No
brushes? Nothing?""That's
right, nothing.""And
you don't want anything for Christmas either?""Oh,
for god's sake Johnny, it isn't Christmas yet. It's
only the middle of november. What are you wittering on
about Christmas for?"I
went into my room. I sat at my desk staring at the
wall. Do I go ahead with the present anyway, or
am I wasting my money. Was this the end of everything,
or is she just in an irritable mood today?Am
I over-reacting? Maybe she is just tired having been
working all week, and then driving home eighty miles
in the dark.I
am over-reacting. I'll wait until tomorrow evening, or
maybe sunday morning, and then ask her. That would be
best, and I'll do it less directly. I'll tell her I
was getting her some paints, and ask her which ones
she wants.On
my desk were letters from builders. There were letters
from the bank, and estimates for my next project. I
just stared at them, and shoved them to the edge of
the desk.On
sunday morning we lay in bed. I thought it was a good
time to reopen the question of her birthday present.
"I'm going to get you a lot of paints for your
birthday. Which colours do you want most?" I asked."I
thought I already told you Johnny, I don't want any
presents from you at all." And she put her hand up,
and brushed me away and turned over.* * * * *
Two
weeks later instead of the Rolls to meet her at the
school there was a small notice on our front gate. I
tied it to the bars. It read, "Happy Birthday
Annabel". She would see it as she drove up and opened
the gate.I
was waiting with the children for her to arrive. We
had tea ready. There were nice things to eat. Mother
had made a cake, and we had stuck a couple of candles
on top, and the children were excited.We
heard the gate go. I put on the kettle. The children
were smiling. Annabel rushed in with a couple of bags,
dumped them on the floor, said a quick hello to the
children, and charged out again. Then she was back
with another couple of bags. Then she ran upstairs
with them.The
children were puzzled. The party wasn't going right at
all.Eventually
she came down again and the kids sang happy birthday
to mum, and I offered her a cup of tea."No,
I'll have coffee," she said bluntly."But
aren't you going to sit down?""I'm
not hungry.""Did
you see our birthday notice on the gate?" I went on in
a pathetic attempt to carry our humiliation further."Notice,
what notice?"Obviously
she had seen it. She couldn't miss it. I got up and
went out to the gate which was still open. I closed it
and untied the notice and brought it in. "We thought
it would be nice to wish you happy birthday." I cut a
slice of bread and we started our tea which we'd kept
waiting for two hours so Annabel could join us.It
was the most miserable tea I've ever had, and the
children sat there like whipped dogs.It
was cold. It was damp. It was dark and foggy. It was
very very quiet. It was Annabel's birthday* * * * *
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